Novel Conspiracy
by Doodle-tan
Summary: Mary Morstan, a young fan of Sherlock Holmes, moves into the flat under John. As the two neighbors begin to bond and Mary studies to be like her idol, the two attempt to discover what was true and false regarding the consulting detective's death.


_A/N: This is actually one of my first Sherlock fics, and a ficlet at that. Because I'm new at writing for a non-anime show, I'm just the slightest bit worried about the initial reactions that I'll get with posting this fic, but I'm rather confident after revising about **five times. **I'd be extremely embarrassed if there were still mistakes._

_This story is post-Reichenbach, so although I don't think anyone in the fandom hasn't seen Reichenbach yet, there are spoilers. _

_ Mary's age (13-15) and the status of her parents does not follow the canon. __And before anyone says anything, I know Mary has not been introduced to the show as of late. __Adding on, the progression of her disease also does not follow the canon, so if that sets you off when it comes to Sherlock fanfiction including Mary, then feel free to pass on reading. I won't mind._

_With that said, enjoy the story!_

* * *

x

The commotion downstairs had woken John from his sleep. The days before at the clinic had been tiring him, and the noise of the new pair moving in downstairs was not contributing well to John's desperately-needed rest.

Mrs. Hudson had told John about the two downstairs who had recently taken the place of Mrs. Turner. He couldn't recall their names, unfortunately, but what he did know was that one, a mother, had divorced her husband a few months ago and was moving into the flat downstairs. Her thirteen-year-old daughter would be living with her without visits to her father. She had been homeschooled all her life by just her mother, so she would be home constantly.

John turned on his side, groggily grabbing the analog clock resting atop his nightstand. The glowing green letters read "7:12", which was later than he would have wanted to wake up, but because it was a Saturday it wasn't that big of a deal. He nearly slammed the clock back down onto the table as he tossed the blanket off of the bed. He pushed himself up with a grunt and turned to close the curtains across the room that had been persistently beaming bright sunlight into his room.

Excluding the movers, this Saturday was just like any other Saturday. John drew the dark curtains back in place, and the light withdrew from the bedroom. Once more the room was dark, the crevices and corners retreating from sight.

He trudged into the heart of the flat, entering the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. The noise downstairs hadn't taken a break thus far, and it didn't sound like it would anytime soon. He propped himself against the edge of the counter, pressing his palms into the corners of the surface as the coffee boiled. Maybe later he would bring a housewarming gift to welcome the two to their flat.

It had been exactly four months to the day since June 15th. It had been three months and one week since he had made two cups of coffee, while one had gone cold. He had been doing that for a while until he found it too silly to continue doing. After a few weeks he would make a second mug of coffee automatically until he realized what a waste it was, using up all that coffee for nothing.

He retrieved his mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter with a clank, and as he shut the cupboard with a thump he simultaneously grabbed the handle of the filled coffee pot. He steadily poured the scalding black coffee, letting the vapor hit his tired face as he watched the liquid decant into the old mug. He returned the pot to where it once stood and leaned against the countertop with his forearm, staring into the surface of the fragrant coffee in his other hand.

The noises and sounds from below were quieter now, quiet enough to hear the birds outside the window and the occasional car drive past. He turned his focus to the wall farthest from him, staring at the dusky curtains tinted with light.

He hadn't done anything to the flat since Sherlock had been around. He hadn't wanted to change it, reorganize it, or even move out. The case files still sat unorganized and scattered under the couch, on the desk, and in dark corners. Knives were still wedged deep into the wooden mantle and the wall, and the wall's knife still held the Cluedo board from so long ago in place. After debating with Mrs. Hudson months ago, the science equipment in the kitchen had been left where it had been arranged. Sometimes John thought he could still smell the chemicals wafting from the acid-stained test tubes that Sherlock hadn't cleaned.

He assumed he should at least clean up somewhat, but any time he tried to arrange or pack away the folders of photos and case files, he hesitated and found himself backing away from the mound of papers until he was sitting in his armchair, staring through the window with his newly-made tea or coffee in his hand. He would tell himself that tomorrow would definitely be the day, that tomorrow he would finally bring himself to move the files and the knives and the equipment. But no matter how hard he pushed himself to tidy the place up and move all of his former flatmate's belongings into boxes, the cycle repeated again, and he would sit back in his armchair and stare at the rooftops of surrounding buildings through the window with his coffee or tea resting at his side.

It was silly to do, knowing that Sherlock was beyond saving or bringing back. It was sentiment. Sherlock hated sentiment, _despised_ sentiment, but that's what kept John going.

Although he hadn't pushed himself to tidy up this morning yet, he was resting in the armchair once more with his coffee on the side table. Now, his main concern was what he would greet the new neighbors with and how. Fortunately for him, he had been out shopping for food just yesterday. He wasn't the best cook, but it couldn't hurt to try.

* * *

It had been later than he wanted to, but after a while he realized he had probably made better timing coming later, after the new neighbors had settled down. He'd made just plain pasta for himself for dinner, but he'd purposely made more than enough to bring some for the neighbors downstairs.

He had met the mother, Giselle Morstan, and her daughter, Mary Morstan. But surprisingly enough, the younger of the two had answered the door when he came down to bring the family extra food. Luckily for them (and for John somewhat), he had cooked better than planned, and the food was actually edible, much to John's surprise and amusement.

"We're just finishing unpacking, but make yourself at home," Giselle chimed, leaving John on the box-covered couch opposite of Mary. "I will be right back." Giselle continued, and she went into the back room, shutting the door gingerly behind her.

"You're John Watson, correct?" Mary said almost immediately after the door closed, straightening up in her seat. She was smirking as if it was an important question, so instantly John nodded. "How cool!" She beamed, seemingly perking up. "I was a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes."

"You _were_?"

"Still am, actually. I want to be just like him." She crooned.

John found himself laughing. "He was a piece of work. Would you really want to be like him?"

"Personality-wise, maybe not," she giggled, "but I'm studying like crazy. I'd love to be as smart as him. He was brilliant, that man." She went into a daze, staring at the floor as she spoke. Her head shot up suddenly, as if she were remembering something. "I hope you're alright with talking about this…"

"Don't worry, it's fine," he grinned, waving it off. He had talked about Sherlock hundreds of times after June 15th, and even once on his blog. He couldn't count how many conversations he'd shared about Sherlock after his death. Mary relaxed in her seat and began smiling to herself.

"I don't think he was a fraud, though."

John's eyes widened. "You don't?"

"No. He was incredibly smart and surprising, but he wasn't perfect. If you really think about it, there was no way he could have been fake. It's just something in the stories and something about that man that makes it seem so real, so genuine… but I don't know what, exactly. I wish I knew what made him seem so legitimate." She fell silent for a moment. "Do you think he's a fraud?"

"No, I don't," He blurted, before holding his tongue. Mary seemed smug about the outburst.

"I've always wanted to find out whether or not he was a fake. His brilliance was intriguing, really—"

"There we are!" The two were interrupted by Giselle, who had changed into cleaner clothes. John turned to see Giselle, who couldn't have possibly been smiling any wider. John didn't mind the interruption, but Mary wasn't as pleased.

* * *

John suddenly found Mary coming into his flat without invitation or warning. He didn't mind the extra company, but the visits she made were always so badly timed and always very sudden. After a while, John began to forget that it wasn't normal for people to openly welcome themselves into their neighbor's flat, and he enjoyed his time talking to Mary. Usually, during weekdays, she would come upstairs before she had to hit the books and before John had to go to the clinic to chat. The conversations never bored John, but the first conversation, overall, had been the most interesting.

John had come into the kitchen to make himself coffee one morning and ran into an unexpected surprise. John hadn't been pleased at first, of course, and demanded he know why Mary was in his kitchen.

"I wanted to make you coffee," She'd claimed nonchalantly, which was a valid excuse, considering the coffee boiling in its pot, "and maybe chat some before the day begins."

"That doesn't give you a reason to come into my flat."

"Does it not?"

"You couldn't have waited until I'd woken up?"

"No."

"I thought I'd locked the door."

"You thought a lot of things that other people thought, too, like how your relationship with your flatmate was non-platonic. I also thought the same, coincidentally. Drink up."

And almost instantly they were friends.

Sometimes their conversations varied from sewing, one of Mary's favorite past-times, to classic literature and art, and even to rugby occasionally. But, in the end, they always began talking about Sherlock and his cases. Sometimes his personality, sometimes his wit and genius. When they had first started talking about him, John had felt the smallest pang of regret and grief in talking so fondly of his deceased friend, but the more they began to talk about the consulting detective, the more John found himself enjoying it.

Giselle never seemed to mind or notice the fact that her daughter was making routine visits to the flat upstairs. Occasionally John wondered if Mary was lying about going to see a friend to come visit, but when Giselle confronted him about how much Mary loved to chat about Sherlock with John one day, he'd realized she had known the entire time. It was irresponsible for a parent to let their kid invite themselves over, but he wondered if maybe she hadn't known Mary was letting herself in.

Whenever Mary came into the flat, she'd go straight for Sherlock's old case files. Every day, afternoon or not, she would sit down in an armchair and, for hours, she would read through the evidence and pictures and information. John probably should have cared that Mary was messing with the papers and folders that had belonged to Sherlock once, but after a while it didn't bother him to watch her move them around. Then again, he probably should have also minded that she was coming in every day without permission. She never did any real harm to anything, though, and she went out of her way to be as quiet, clean, and polite as possible. So John never bothered her about it or scolded her.

* * *

"Do you ever think he could still be alive?"

"What?" John had been brewing tea for Mary and himself, and he had been honestly confused by what she was getting at.

"Sherlock. Do you think he could have played everyone?" Mary continued, casually flipping through old papers as usual.

"No, that's impossible."

"He was a genius. He could have fooled you."

"Why would he do that? Why would he pretend to jump off a building?"

Without comment, Mary pulled out a cellphone. It looked eerily familiar to John, and it took him just seconds to realize why.

"My father, a doctor at St. Bart's… he let me investigate the roof of the hospital with the police the day of the accident, knowing I was one of his fans… and I found this." She turned the phone back and forth in her hand to show it off. "Was it his?"

John cautiously nodded. "How'd you get it?"

"I snuck it away. It probably wasn't the right thing to do, and I knew that when I took it, but… thing is, it's locked by a password, and I can't figure it out. Would you know it?"

"I might…" John sighed, leaving behind the steaming tea to look over the phone. He swerved around the couch and walked to Mary, and she handed him the phone as he grew closer. John added, "All I remember is that the password was a complicated string of numbers… ten, at most." He switched the phone on. "But I could always try."

"I have the same phone, so I've been able to keep it charged… but most of the time it's off." Mary observed as John stared into the bright screen. "I figured maybe you'd know the password."

He began by typing the simpler things. "221B", "John", "Sherlock", "Holmes", et cetera. As he'd begun to type in things that probably only Sherlock and John (and maybe close friends) would know, somehow, "Rachel" unlocked it. It seemed too simple a password for Sherlock, but John dismissed any suspicions. He attempted to search through the pictures, audio, and video, but found that the only things left were old messages.

"Anything interesting?"

"Not really."

He began to search deeper, scrolling through the messages and calls and drafts. Nothing stood out, though. He began a new message, just for fun. He wrote, with slow fingers, "Good afternoon. –SH", which was boring and a very not-Sherlock thing to say, as he would never text or bother with such simplistic greetings, but he went with what came to mind first and sent it. As the message attempted to send, it was interrupted. The message was replaced with an error, and the text hadn't sent. It was always worth a try.

"Nothing stands out," John began, "though the password is 'Rachel' for some reason, in case you needed to know…" John handed the phone off to Mary, who put it in sleep mode.

"Do you mind if I keep it?"

"Not at all." It was a lie, of course, but he knew the phone would be fine with Mary. She grinned as John said this, slipping the phone into her dress pocket as she returned to the files.

* * *

Mary came charging up the stairs of the building wilder than John thought anyone ever could, but as she ran up, John tried to drown out the sound of thumping footsteps against the staircase as he heated up lunch.

Mary burst through the door of the flat, and although John was expecting it, he flinched at the sound. She darted into the kitchen, her face as white as ivory. Predictably, she was panting, but he hadn't expected her to be so pale.

"John…" She heaved, crouching to catch her breath.

"What's wrong?" He asked intently, darting away from the cooking food and bending over to place his palm on Mary's forehead. Mary seemed moderately displeased, and weakly swatted John away, lifting up Sherlock's lit phone in her hand.

"Listen to this."

As she held out the phone, he'd noticed she had it open on an audio file. He was positive he hadn't seen one before when he was checking, but as Mary pressed play he instantly recognized the voice playing from the phone's speakers.

"June 15th, 2011. 1 A.M., working with Molly Hooper. I've changed the password for people that are familiar with me, and hopefully the realization is straightforward. I've discovered the solution to the problem. I have the rubber ball with me constantly. If all goes well and the plan succeeds, wait three years. If I'm fortunate enough, the right person… or people… will have discovered this. Return this phone to John Watson if convenient. Make sure he keeps it on his person. And do not let him leave it out of his sight. Adding on, whoever is listening to this, don't leave this phone out of your sight. I can't emphasize this enough, but wait three years."

The two of them stared in disbelief and stood silent even after the phone had beeped, signaling the audio's end.

"That was him," Mary gasped.

"Yeah."

"June 15th. That was the day."

* * *

John hadn't texted Sherlock's phone in months. Every time he had, he was greeted with an error message and code, and after a hundred or so texts he had given up.

But now he found himself with a blank text box on the phone in front of him, and the recipient's name at the top of the screen read "Sherlock". He hadn't wanted to come back to this. He hadn't wanted to start this entire cycle over again of texting a dead person. It was stupid, really, and Sherlock obviously would have thought the same. But his hands didn't seem to want to listen to his head, and before he knew it he had typed "I found your phone. Mary found it on the roof of St. Bart's. –JW". He added an extra "You'd like Mary. She likes you and your intelligence. Trust me, she's definitely let me in on her hobbies. –JW" to shed some light on the topic, though, really, there was no point to it. He already felt ridiculous.

It wasn't like someone was waiting on the other end. He knew he'd be greeted with the same error message as before. It always took a few minutes, and when he'd begun texting a ghost he had always prayed every time that the message wouldn't interrupt. But every time, every _bloody _time, it did.

This time was different, though. This time the message never appeared. It concerned John for a while, and he continually checked the phone on the other end and the phone on the transmitting end just in case either device could have possibly received a new message. Every other text before this one, as checked by John, hadn't appeared on Sherlock's old phone in his message folder. He assumed the missing error message was an error in itself, so he let it be. Eventually he forgot about the incident, and he sat down with the two cell phones in his hand to watch television while the world outside the flat grew still and dark.

* * *

After a few months of the Morstan's living under his flat, Mary was diagnosed with pediatric thyroid cancer, and just weeks after she was diagnosed, Giselle and Mary moved across the country for better treatment.

Mary had cried for days after hearing that she would be moving, and she promised John that she would keep in touch through the entire ordeal of being treated and recovering. She'd given him her phone number, along with Sherlock's phone, just in case, and just like that she was gone. No address or other ways of contacting her. Just a phone number.

He knew that just being given a phone number would turn out poorly in the end. He was expecting calls every few days or so like she had promised. After a week of no communication or calls, he began to grow worrisome, but he held off calling to give her some space after moving.

But for weeks, his phone was dead. No calls or messages from Mary who had moved across the country and away from what could have been her only friend. Out of paranoia and concern John began to call her to check up on her condition, but every call always redirected to her voicemail. The first ten or so times, he'd left a voicemail, expecting her to possibly hear it and call back, but she never called or responded or even cared to text.

"Mary was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. She'd promised to check up after she moved but she hasn't called. I finally cracked and called her today. I haven't heard from her since she left, and, as bad as it sounds, I'm afraid I never will. –JW"

* * *

He had bought a calendar that hung on the refrigerator door to count down the three years. At the two year mark, he had still not been contacted by Mary, nor had he received an error message from the previous texts he had sent to Sherlock. He had nearly forgotten about the texts, but almost every _day_ he caught himself thinking about Mary's condition, wondering if she was even still alive at this point. He often guiltily caught himself thinking about Sherlock on occasion, wondering if Mary had been right about his condition the entire time. He sincerely wondered if Sherlock was alive out there, living life normally without John as if he had chosen to part in such a way. If anything, it was a selfish idea.

The flat downstairs hadn't been occupied since the Morstan's moved, and the building was always so terribly quiet now. It took a few weeks of adjusting to realize that Mary wouldn't be making daily afternoon and brief morning visits to her neighbor upstairs to read through old, dusty case files or solve simple crimes in weeks that had taken Sherlock just hours… sometimes even minutes.

Now that he never had people over, nor did he go out, he found himself watching television more than ever. Very rarely he would update his blog or start reading a book, but he'd practically given up all hope on the blog. The only reasons he had to go out were to see his therapist or shop for groceries that week, which, in turn, caused John's ways of looking at the outside world to warp and been like they had before. Before Sherlock and Mary.

As he sat half-awake in the living space, watching television like he always ended up doing, two gunshots were heard up and down the street, and John bolted upright, stirred after he had just begun to nod off. He flew to the window and looked down at the pavement, discovering a girl lying (probably) dead near the door to the building. He didn't even try to think about the occurrence, but instead hurried out the door and down the staircase.

He erupted from the doorway of 221, sprinting for the girl lying unconscious just feet away. She had a clearly visible gunshot wound piercing her left shoulder, and she could have been just grazed if not for a mere inch or so aimed right. He instantly dove towards the girl, picking her up and rolling her over as he knelt down beside her.

John brushed the hair away from the girl's pale face, exposing her eyes that had shut. The long, blonde hair and slender, naïve face was recognizable to John almost instantaneously.

It felt like he had been hit by a bus as the thought of Mary struck him. Only once had he felt so strained to shake someone awake and slap them until their face turned blue. The fledging, brilliant Mary who had wanted nothing more than to be as clever as Sherlock Holmes but sweeter than anyone John had ever met. But if she was here now, lying near-dead on the pavement with the sleeve and collar of her white day dress coated red, she must have lived a little longer and recovered from her illness, astonishingly. John was shaken to the point that his brain functions shut down, and he was reduced to the intelligence of a child lost in a crowd. He was lost. Definitely lost.

He couldn't even find the resolve to shout her name, let alone say it. She would have been fifteen now. He'd wanted to see how cunning she had become in the time that had passed and ask if she had found the time to study while she was away. Maybe her powers of deduction had improved over time.

"Run!" The echo of a gravelly, anxious voice barked from an alley, followed by two ear-piercing gunshots. John ducked instinctively beside Mary, bowing over her on the blood-streaked pavement. He looked around frantically for the cause of the noise, never forgetting to look back at Mary's pallid face just to check for a sign of life every few seconds.

"Run, for God's sake, run!"

He didn't want to leave Mary behind with just the blood on the pavement, but the suggestive gunfire recommended retreating would be best. He desperately felt around Mary's neck one last time for a nonexistent pulse before scampering back inside. He locked the door behind him, too afraid to turn back but too desperate to go forward.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to go bounding back for Mary, although he knew what condition she was in. If you could even consider it a condition. As sirens grew closer and closer, the gunfire thinned out, and the gaps between the rounds of shots became longer until they were ultimately gone. John approached the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, rapping impatiently on it for a few seconds before charging back upstairs to glance out onto the pavement. He just needed her awake. It wasn't possible, at this point, for her to be asleep, what with all the noise around the block.

He rushed up the stairs and back into the flat, and somehow the first thing on his mind was to find the phone. Not his. Sherlock's. He'd left it across the room, on the side-table by his armchair, but as he drew nearer to the table he found it missing. He began to panic, searching every piece of furniture and every cabinet to find the phone. John could hear the sirens just turning around the corner, and he determined that the best idea now would be to watch the pavement outside.

But as he peered out onto the street, he'd found that Mary had been replaced with a gentleman John most likely wouldn't have recognized, even if they had been face-to-face. In complete skepticism, he stood frozen at the window, speculating whether or not to go down and help the police, but in the end he found it best to help out his friend, who had died down there in front of the building. Why had she been there in the first place so late? Had she run away from her parents to come back? It sounded so outlandish, maybe enough so that it could have been in a work of fiction. As John fled down the staircase, he wondered about what exactly he would say, or what information the police would need from him. What information could he give, really, now that she had disappeared from the street? By now, his thoughts were far past confused and well into chaotic.

* * *

The day was almost three years to the date, but more like two year and three-hundred and sixty-four days exactly. And in that time John had been so utterly alone, so overwhelmed by the loss of his friends in such a short time that he quit his job at the clinic. Two years and ten months in he was now jobless, but he had enough money to get by for three months or so until he would have to find a new career and stop mindlessly grieving.

He didn't know what to expect on the mark of the third year. He didn't even know if anything _would _happen, considering it had been promised by Sherlock. He found himself unable to sleep the night before the third June 15th, so he got comfortable in his armchair and tried to stay awake. Which he knew he wouldn't be able to do, and he would probably pass out.

And he was right.

He wasn't surprised to find nothing had changed when he woke up. All the case files still (slightly) in order where they had been left, the knives still in place. Nothing noticeable, special, or even thought-provoking. He could have said he was heartbroken, but he hadn't been expecting much. In the end the three years of counting weren't worth it, and he already began to wonder if, maybe, what would happen on the mark of the third year would happen later in the day.

He got up to make himself coffee, and as it boiled he realized how truly upset he was, that nothing had happened after he'd been counting down for three prolonged years. He glanced over at the three calendars, with the third open to June. The last 15th still hadn't been crossed off, and he took the opportunity to fix that as the coffee boiled. He bent down near the calendar, slipping out the red marker from between the spiral binding. As he undid the cap, a voice stopped him.

"Good morning."

The sound of another person's voice in the flat jolted John, and he shot upright, dropping the marker on the kitchen tile. He turned restlessly to the source of the noise, involuntarily turning towards the living room. The voice was unmistakable.

"What… What are…" John couldn't quite find and form the words he needed at that moment.

"What am I doing here?" The curly-haired man stood, and as he did so John finally acknowledged the girl behind him. "My job was done, and I no longer desired to sit and observe you from a distance. I had only wanted to lie about one thing, but with Mary involved, it had developed into three solid lies."

"Three…"

"I was never sick," She injected, "and I had never been shot. It was a decoy to take the phone I'd given you. Sherlock's." She was exceedingly calm, considering the position she had put John and herself in. "It was the only way to make sure you would be distracted."

He had so many things to say and so many questions to ask, but he couldn't find a suitable place to start. "You were—"

"Dead, yes." So much for that. He was already growing used to having Sherlock interrupt him repetitively. Not that he missed it too much, but something about it definitely brought back the sure presence of Sherlock's mocking, snide air. And John had to admit he'd missed that, as painful as it was to say. "It had taken longer than planned to destroy Moriarty's underground chain of delinquents, but eventually many of the members dispersed or… expired, courtesy of myself, and partly Mary."

Somehow John couldn't imagine Mary being involved with something so grotesque and unbecoming.

"On the bright side, I met my idol at last."

John tried desperately to laugh, but something caught in his throat, distorting the laugh until it sounded more like a pathetic, strangled cry. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and something about the minor act caused Mary to finally snap and dart across the room to her old friend. She was so ready to finally see him again, after all that time. They finally embraced in a heartwarming hug, a hug that Mary had been waiting ages for. Sherlock stepped awkwardly forward, but not enough to interrupt or stop the two so they could come back to Earth and calm themselves.

After a few seconds, though, Sherlock realized that the silence or lack of air to them both wouldn't simply tear the two apart, so Sherlock came to the conclusion of joining the two, to add some effect, although Sherlock couldn't have cared less. He found it cumbersome to wrap his arms fully around them both, which didn't please him at all.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock began, pressing his forehead against the side of John's skull as John began to get teary-eyed at the sight of Mary crying. "I'm infinitely sorry about what I—"

"Don't," he interrupted with a sigh of reserved irritation. "I know what you were going to say. Don't ruin the moment."

Sherlock couldn't help but stifle a laugh. It was good to have his army doctor back.

"Can I at least tell you how I did it?" He had wanted to show off how clever he was again, now that he had him back.

"I'm telling you not to ruin it." John slipped in a laugh of his own. "Later, okay?"

"Alright, fine." Sherlock smirked to himself. "Later."


End file.
